Henry, whom we adopted 11 years ago, passed away yesterday. He was suffering from lymphoma, a diagnosis he received not quite two weeks ago. He’d been acting “off” for about a month before the got him to the vet, and we finally managed to get him rangled into the carrier. He was an expert at eluding capture and knew more ways of blocking us from actually putting him inside the carrier than any cat we’ve ever had. It took us almost two weeks of trying before we finally managed to get him into the carrier and to the vet.
While we could have taken heroic measures including surgery and chemo, it would have bought him a year, maybe, but he would have been miserable, sick, and hurting the entire time, something we couldn’t do to him. After discussing it with Deb, we made the decision that we couldn’t let him suffer. He had declined considerably in the two weeks since his diagnosis, becoming less active, losing weight, not sleeping well, and having difficulty finding a comfortable position to sleep.
We had no problem placing him in the carrier, an indication that he really wasn’t feeling well, and took him to the vet. I won’t go into any details, but he died with both Deb and I petting him, telling him he was a “good boy”, and to ‘go find Miss, Tommy, and Charlotte,’ and that we would see him again some day.
It brought to mind a song we used to sing about him (with apologies to Herman’s Hermits.)
He’s Hen-ery the Cat he isSleep well, Henry. Til we meet again.
Hen-ery the Cat he is, he is
He was adopted by the family next door
They’d adopted seven cats before
But none of them was a Hen-ery (Hen-ery)
Nor a Tom, Dick, Harry, or a Sam
He’s the only cat named Hen-ery
Hen-ery the Cat he is, he is
Hen-ery the Cat he is...